


Atrophy

by goodhunter (cydova)



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Multi, POV Alternating, Slow Build, also there is a pairing i cant tag, everyone knows each other somehow, non canon characters, the vilebloods are vampiric in nature, this is gonna suck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-17 09:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11272353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydova/pseuds/goodhunter
Summary: at·ro·phyˈatrəfē/verb1. (of body tissue or an organ) waste away, typically due to the degeneration of cells, or become vestigial during evolution.2. To waste away, become emaciated, whitherWatching a hunter would be something akin to watching a tragedy, one might presume. An aimless, gore-soaked tragedy, for of course, a violent night will result in a violent end.In which we shall watch a hunter, young and daft some may say. Ah yes, so very daft to think there may be an end to these plights.In which tragedy shall ensue, for that we know.In which it is not the end, but the infinite that we watch for.([A longform version of the game's events, with creative liberty and takes on canon])





	1. Rouse, Good Hunter

It all began with fire, believe it or not. The harsh lick of flames dancing somewhere off to my side, given life by a steady burning torch. Its flickering light was all we had, in the decrepit cavern in which we walked. I was weak, muscles aching and my insides churning, the dark hood pulled over my head the only thing hiding the symptoms of an awful disease. The slow drip of dark blood from my nose created a terrible sensation, but I dared not touch my face, fearing my own blood would infect me further, as is that could even happen at this point. The damage was done, whatever ran through my veins now was killing me. I was as feverish as the heat of the torch, seeing the shadows move and twist, flashes of bright white light as well as phantom hands caressing my skin. I thought I heard a name, a single, familiar name being called out....no, it couldn’t be. 

“Oh yes...paleblood,” A foreign voice observed, as a flash of gauze wrapped eyes and bloody glass struck me. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, Yharnam is the home of blood ministration,” It continued, along with the creaking of wheels and wooden floors. “But where’s an outsider like yourself to begin, hm?” The room seemed to shake for a moment before disappearing completely.

My brother pleaded, holding me as I shifted from the strange vision back to him. Cold sweat covered my brow but everything seemed too hot. My sister crouched close to us, holding the torch above. I could see her long hair glimmer and shine in the light, remembering how it felt when I would braid flowers into it when we were young. The way the fire danced and moved caused a sudden lurch in my gut and a vomited blood and bile onto the floor. My throat was raw and bleeding, a horrible ringing starting in my ears. Sudden gunshots rang out, the roars of great beasts and the shrill screams of a child. The faint chime of small bells, perhaps a music box played in the distance.

The strange room returned and the unfamiliar voice spoke again as there was a sharp pain in my arm. Something began to seep into my skin, cold and thick. I couldn’t comprehend what I was hearing or what was happening. Every few seconds, my brother’s arms were holding me as my body shook violently and then there would be that cold sweat, and I was on a stretcher, staring up at a disgusting ceiling with the stench of blood around me. A mournful cry from one of my siblings rang out and I reached out for someone to take my hand. Please, how I needed the contact. I felt the warmth of two others take mine just before everything started to fade out. The last thing I saw before the final shift was the terrified eyes of my only family, one pair red, one white. The two of them and the torch seemed to shake and twist before I was violently pulled into the other room. 

“Whatever happens...you may think it all a mere, bad, dream,” The voice assured and I finally saw the face of an old man, messy grey hair and top hat barely lit by a small lantern. Whatever was now running through me felt like lead. It was heavy, weighted and I couldn't comprehend it. I let my head fall back into the stretcher, hearing the old man start to laugh. Part of me wanted to scream, to jump up and run but I knew I couldn’t. The small prick of pain in my arm seemed to intensify as more fluid flooded my bloodstream. 

It seemed a century before I realized I had gone unconscious. My eyes opened slowly, lids heavy and irritated. I could feel the grime of dried sweat, blood and tears all over my face. I couldn’t, however, feel my body. The room, which I now could recognize as a clinic of sorts, was littered with tall bookcases filled with old paper and tomes. Another empty stretcher was shoved to the side of the room, a small table covered in medical tools and needles next to it. It was dark, no lanterns or lights to illuminate the room. The only light came from what I assumed was a lone window, high up and out of sight. Long poles holding jars of dirty liquids and blood were strewn about and I followed the tubes of one to find it connected to my arms. However badly I wanted to tear the awful needles out of my arms, I could not. 

A wet, sloshing noise caught my attention. Off to the left side of my head, close, too close. I managed to slowly turn my head, in time to see a large puddle of rancid blood, bubbling and churning. The floor creaked and whined and my tired eyes went wide as something began to crawl out.

A...beast. Yes, a beast. A horrid beast, bloodsoaked and rising up out of a pool of viscera. Like a rabid dog, but much bigger. Oh, much, much bigger. Its eyes glowed a horrible white and its teeth were like splintered wood jutting out of its jaws. Dirty, wet bandages hung from its long limbs, tangling with the filthy hair sprouting from its skin. Its eyes were on my still form and all I could do was watch as it seemed to study me for a moment, hissing and spitting. It raised a single clawed paw, almost hesitating before reaching out to touch me. 

Fire exploded before my eyes when a single knife-like claw grazed my clothing. The beast screamed in agony as it’s body was set aflame by an unseen force before my eyes. I watched it as it writhed about, screeching and singing its death rattle, sinking back into the puddle as ash. I had little time to think before I felt another sensation. 

I was sick with confusion and terror as small, bony hands began to gently clutch as my clothing and my limbs. I looked down at my own body to see multiple tiny, skeletal creatures climbing up onto me. Their flesh was cold and pale, stretched too tightly around their small frames, all without eyes. A few had teeth and mouths while one in particular just had a long slit where it’s face would have been. My heart raced as they began to close in on me, ever so tenderly reaching for my face and neck. It...it was all too much. 

Before I blacked out once again, I heard a another strange voice. Yet this one was sweet, calm and reminded me of endless fields of wildflowers and charming spring air. 

“Ah, you’ve found yourself a hunter,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm sure these longform-big dumb Bloodborne fics aren't particularly common and all but I wanted to write out my journey through the game, how I saw things and what kind of story I'd mold out of the bits and pieces good ole Fromsoft gave us. Just this first chapter will be short and in first person, after this it'll switch to third and be much longer in length. 
> 
> Rating will definitely be going up, there will probably be some nasty stuff in this so be forewarned!


	2. The Cardinal Toll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd be better off blind in a world like this, awake with nothing but flashes of things you cannot understand. In time perhaps, in time you will discover you reasoning.

The Hunter woke, tired eyes opening slowly under rays of dying sunlight. The stench of cleansing alcohol and strange fluids seemed to rot the air, stinging his lungs with every breath. He sat, slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with boney fingers. His face was angled, raw-boned and marred with long scars running down his cheek. The eye they trailed was white in color, like a single star in the sky. The other rested like a garnet in his bruised eye socket, a stark contrast to the other. 

He could remember naught but blurred visions and awful sobbing, brow furrowed as he tried to chase away the memories. Body trembling, he ran a hand through his mess of pale hair.

Another stretcher was propped next to his, metal poles and glass bottles with long tubes hanging around it. The stains upon the wood brought a sick feeling to his stomach, more so than he already had. Something glittered, sitting on the old thing and catching the light. 

Taking a deep breath, he swung thin legs over the side of his own stretcher, staring down at strangely familiar shoes. Dots of mud on the worn leather distracted him before he shook his head.

“Thinking of shoes at a time like this,” He said. Or attempted to say, at most. The words remained only in his head, his voice nothing more than a sigh.

He stood, legs stronger than expected. The room was tall but crowded, bookcases and cabinets lining the walls, though nothing as interesting at what shined on the opposite stretcher. A simple, old mirror that looked medical in a strange way, sitting on a tray along with unrecognizable instruments. He picked it up tentatively, the cracked and grimy glass seeming alive for a brief second. He caught a glimpse of his own face, freckles and scars so familiar but out of reach. He’d known hadn’t he? He had known what he looked like before peering into the glass. 

A strange fondness formed as he tucked the thing into his breast pocket. He wore a short riding hood, pulling the worn, leathery material over his head. It felt safer to do so, in this room. Wherever he was. Looking around again, he spied a door behind and a door before him. He tried the one behind and was met with a tough lock and a thick shutter. There would be no going that way, not for now at least. The other door however, swung upon easily, its old hinges creaking and sputtering. He winced at the noise, lest he be disturbing the silence. Perhaps he was not supposed to awaken yet. Or perhaps he was not supposed to awaken at all. A short staircase greeted him, rich colored wood leading down into was he hoped was an exit. As he descended, a noise began to bleed in through the walls. A slight, near sound, unsettling him to his core. He came to the bottom of the steps as quietly as possible, finding himself in a much larger room, stretchers and assorted medical equipment scattered about. The smell of rot and hair drifted in, overpowering the scent of medical fluids as the sound grew in its intensity. He crept closer, ducking around discarded cots and tables, taking note of the large splatters of dark blood against the floorboards. It did not take long for the Hunter to find the source of both the smell and the sound.

A beast, like the one from that awful vision, this one injured and holding itself, a deep gash in its side. It was tearing at a corpse, thick teeth ripping apart flesh and making disgusting noises as the chunks of bloody meat slid down its throat. He watched the display for what felt like an hour, holding back the urge to vomit. Even injured, he knew he hadn’t a chance. 

There would be no fighting, only escape. It seemed to block the only way out, the faint sound of the outside just close enough to hear. He began to circle around, charting a path in a loop around the thing as to not disturb it. Quietly sneaking, ignoring the awful noises, the smell, the feeling of flies and sweat nipping at his skin. Everything became maddening, loud inside his mind. So much so that he did not notice a small glass bottle on the floor. It clattered and broke, thin shards of glass smashing and covering the already filthy floor. There was silence, for a moment. He froze, painfully aware of his mistake and completely still. Despite the horrible feeling that sunk in his bones, he dared look behind.

The beast's horrid eyes burned, ravenous hunger churning in collapsed pupils. It still held what looked like an arm, shifting its lank body to face the boy. He glanced at the doorway, a cold sweat breaking across his forehead. He could. He could make it, he knew he could. The beast was injured and it was the only way. The only option The beast reared up on its hind legs, preparing to lunge forward, sharp jaws opening. The hunter almost mirrored the stance, feet digging into the creaky floorboards and springing forward and away. Breaking out into a full sprint, crashing through glass and tubes and metal. The open door was not far, not at all.

The grain of the wooden archway felt like heaven, if only for that short moment. Exuberance, safety and accomplishment bolstered through his body, ready to run through and keep running until the beast could follow no longer.

Success will forever be short lived however. Everything must come to an end. The adrenaline went cold as claws grazed his gut from behind. It never seems real at first, for the Hunter ran still. The claws tightened and in an instant, were joined by more. Weight crashed down into the floor, leaving an unarmored body helpless. The racing of his heartbeat stung in his chest when the pain struck, sharp and hot in his belly as the claws punctured flesh. Thick, dull teeth dug their way into muscle. He screamed but nothing seemed to surface from his throat. 

The putrid beast yanked its head, tearing a large chunk out of his shoulder and swallowing it with a sickening noise. It clamped its jaws around his neck, turning would be screams into nothing more than gasps. It gnawed and tore, claws and teeth working at once to tear its prey to pieces. Repulsive fur stuck to his skin where clothing had been torn, feeling coarse and sharp in a way. Tears dripped from mismatched eyes before one harsh pull resulted in a sharp snap. His vision flashed with red mist and then with ink. He could feel shattered neck bones no more.

The abyss stretched, flashing images and feelings in an instant. The feeling of nothing, the feeling of absence. Flesh and bone rendered useless, trivial. In that flash, he saw nothing but a mark. Lines cut into him, behind his eyes, into the deep chambers of his heart.  
The Hunter gasped, still trying to let a scream tear from lungs that would yield nothing but silence. Expecting the beast and the blood, he felt the phantom jaws tearing him to bits. His surroundings registered, the breath and bile he imagined nowhere present. The air was cool, like rain was just about to fall. Calm, gray skies laid above him, the stars appearing behind a veil of fog. The scent of flowers and grass were all around.

A wail caught in his throat as he brought a hand to cover his face. Tears fell freely, the boy sobbing like a child, lying with his back on stone ground. He had felt it, had he not? The emptiness, all the pain of being ripped apart by blades not sharp enough to do the job properly. All his blood, all his life leaking out, being devoured, face buried in a stained floor with corpses just a step away. 

It felt hollow. There was a piece of him missing now, he was sure of it. He laid there on the soft ground, gathering himself. Young he may be, but grown enough that his tears felt foolish. Childish and stupid as he wiped them from his face, feeling the rigid lines of his scars.

Slowly, he stood. He shook now, with fear and with confusion, thrown into another time and place yet again. A hill, covered in crawling ivy and white flowers. A sprawling walkway of old stone led up the hill to a cottage of sorts, opulent and gothic in its architecture, yet there was something simple about it. It was almost welcoming, with wooden doors beckoning and small candles melting onto almost every flat surface leading to it. Strange headstones lead up the path, some crumbling but all covered in the same candles.

He turned away from the building for a moment to look behind at wrought iron fences and stone half walls. They twisted and created a path around large trees, blocked off any escape from what seemed to be an island of sorts. Beyond the fences was a barren, smoke filled void of grey and white, with impossibly tall pillars dotting the landscape. His eyes would not hold on it for long, dull hurt seeping through his head. He looked away, hands pressed to his temples, shaking his head gently before turning to walk back up the path to the small structure. 

Approached the stairs brought slight horror, the little pale creatures from the clinic crawling out of the earth itself. They spoke in quiet, hushed tones, too fast for the Hunter to understand, the boy jumping backwards as they reached tiny hands up to him. His foot caught on a rock, tipping onto his rear and landing with a soft thud on the ground. He held his hands before himself in defense, expecting them to descend and crawl upon his as they had in the clinic. Yet they did not. A small, gentle hand reached forward to touch his leg, the only thing it could reach. The faces that had expression had only warmth and concern within, as the other creatures put their hands up in a way similar to the Hunter. The leader of the group seemed to nod its head before they sunk a bit into the earth. He stared blankly, slowly lowering tired arms and rising to his feet.

When the little creatures returned, three held up small badges. One was made of steel, strong and in the shape of an ax. Another was made of wood, a small handle on it making it resemble some sort of cane. The third was reminiscent of a saw blade, dirty and old but still sharp enough to cut anything. The third badge called in low timber, a hum that sung of companionship. He carefully leaned down and reached for it, unsure of what or why all this was happening. The pale creatures seemed overjoyed, readily motioning at him to bow his head. He hesitated, for as gentle as they seemed, he could not bring himself to trust, not after the rapidness of everything that had happened. Eventually he gave in, seeing no other option, kneeling and dropping his head. They looped the thin leather cord around his neck, the tiny saw blade clinking against the chain of his cloak. Soft chatter escaped them as he stood, and they clasped their tiny hands at the sight. The hunter still shook quite a bit, yet the presence of these peculiar things put him at ease for some reason. 

“Thank you,” He attempted to say, yet the words caught in his throat and did not surface. Instead, a low, raspy noise that was more akin to a growl than words came out. They did not seem to mind.

The little creatures beckoned him forward, up a few more steps to greet him with another choice. This time, they held up two firearms. He arched an eyebrow and examined them with interest for a moment. One was clearly a pistol, with it’s small barrel and intricate mechanisms. The other was, something he could not name, hulking and looked heavy. His mind held vague knowledge of what it was, how to use it and such. He also felt a favoritism towards the pistol, reaching down to pick it up. He found that its grip fit perfectly in a bloody palm, the weight comfortable. He accepted a belt of silver along with it, bullets carefully kept in the loops of leather. The creatures, seemingly satisfied with the choice, handed over a leather bound journal, a small bell and a blank. Looking over the items for a moment, he slipped the journal and blank into the pocket of his vest, finding space near the stolen mirror. He tried not to think of it as fingers brushed the cool glass. The bell was small enough to loop around his neck with the small blade. Part of him worried that it would make too much noise, but it seemed to stay silent for whatever reason.

Glancing towards the wooden doors of the cottage, he found they were closed. The square, colored glass of the windows was just thick and dirty enough that nothing could be seen through, walking up the final steps to reach for the door knob. Turning it did nothing, and pushing the door was a waste of energy. He let out a deep breath, finally giving up after a few minutes of staring at the lock. 

There seemed to be no way in and as he looked around, he noticed a remaining group of the creatures lingering at the bottom of the stairs. He descended slowly, kneeling down when they beckoned. They seemed to speak amongst themselves before they pulled something out from the smoke beneath them. A great cleaver, made from a large saw blade, much like one now hanging from his neck, balanced carefully in their small hands. The horrid weapon was wrapped in old gauze and seemed to have a hinge on the handle. The sight filled him with an extremely odd sense of glee. His blood felt a degree hotter as he accepted it, picking it up by the long grip and standing back up. Something seemed to stir within him, walking a few paces forward. He stood, pistol in one hand, cleaver in the other. One swift movement of his arm and he could feel the weight of the heavy blade cut through the air. It felt natural. Fluid. Correct. It was like muscle memory or instinct, swinging the weapon just right. The blade clicked and extend, transforming into a long, almost sword like weapon. 

It was strange, to say the very least. His mind told him things, whispered in words he did not know, in a voice that was not his. The feel of weapons in his hands was a comfort. A joy, almost. He turned to examine the first headstone, noticing how the pale creatures pooled around it, reaching and pulling with their hands, as if trying to call him. He thought to oblige before something caught his eye. 

Next to the steps on an outcropping of stone sat a figure. Unmoving and lifeless, it seemed. The lack of blood and deathly stench told him as much. A doll, as it would appear stared blankly at him. It had the face of a young woman, silver hair covered by a flowered bonnet. He thought he should feel unsettled as the thing remained motionless but instead, a dull calm sat in his chest. The weapons in his hands felt heavy and he expected her to stand for some reason.

A doll is a doll of course, so she did not. The Hunter returned to the creatures, leaning down and letting them grab onto his arm. His head was flooded with a vision of the clinic as a soft light enveloped him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Whether it seemed a blink of an eye or a lifetime, he could not tell. When he next stood, he was returned to the clinic in which he had awoken. In which he had passed. His head spun a bit from being plunged back into the hostile environment, dread filling him. However, something was different. A small, purple lantern, flickering and standing with silent calm. A few of the small, pale creatures gathered around it, almost looking like they were praying. In his head he had no doubt that with an extended hand, they would take him back to the peaceful place. He thought of the beast instead. That horrid, rancid animal, its mouth wet with his blood. He loaded his pistol before running a hand along the blade of the cleaver. Sick lust filled his mind, clouding everything in a haze of red.

The thing remained where he had last been, still chewing on bits of flesh that it tore from a corpse. Not him, not his own corpse. He was still using his body it seemed, for lack of surprise. He made no attempt at subterfuge this time, walking calmly to meet the beast in the center of the room. It sniffed at the air, its tongue flicking out as it turned its revolting gase to him. He tightened his grip on the cleaver. 

The beast let out a shriek, rearing up like it had before in preparation to attack him. Almost mechanically, he raised the pistol to aim at the thing’s chest, finger curling around the trigger. The bullet flew from the chamber and into the beast’s flesh, causing it to howl in pain and double over. Fear struck him suddenly, the red haze cleared. No lust, no joy, no sick glee as the thing writhed about. What was he to do? Slaughter a beast?  
Reflex took ahold as he wasted his chance, the beast flinging its injured body forward in a weak attempt to claw at him. He jumped out to the way easily, instinct telling him to unfurl the cleaver. In a split second, he swung the blade, thoughts blank as the metal teeth sunk into the beast’s flesh. It was silent, apart from the squelching of muscle and meat, an extravagant amount of blood spilling from the gaping hole in the thing’s neck. It splattered outwards, bathing the hunter’s torso in crimson.

It was too much. He couldn’t keep up with his breathing, the beast’s eyes still glowing a horrible white and looking at him, empty. The blood was hot and smelled of decay, sticking to his skin through his clothing. His hands shook, gripping his weapons tightly before stumbling through the door he had previously tried to run to. 

Another set of stairs led him to the outdoors, an orange sunset covering a courtyard of headstones and gnarled trees. He collapsed on the paved ground, retching dryly and coughing. Fear took hold again, like the fear he’d felt when entering that peaceful place. Questions, so many questions tore at him, like the claws of the monster he had just slain. The outside air held no rapport for him, ash and death staining the sky as well as his insides. 

It took him too long to stand again, he was sure the sun would have dropped from the sky by now. Looking up showed no sign of movement however. As if time had never dragged on while he was trapped in his fear. 

Hands found the cleaver and the pistol. The black hood returned to his head. Blood and sweat clung to him, for he could not get dry no matter how long he waited. He could see the glow of a torch and heard the rambling of a madman somewhere near. 

“The night is young,” was all he could think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd switched to the pov it should all be set in! I promise he'll have his name soon and we'll be meeting the gang


	3. Speak and Know Thy Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concourse will have its repercussions, no doubt at all. Loneliness has its merits in safety and in efficiency where mobs will create quite the stir. Still, any sane being seeks out its own kind and such it is, that your own will always find you.

The Crow perched atop a towering structure, the long feathered ends of her garb winding with the breeze. Shining eyes peered out from a beaked mask as she watched in silence, down upon the streets below. A foreigner by the looks of it, snuck about back and forth, ever cautious of the diseased citizens who would swing blunt weapons and fiery sticks. 

She’d a thought to kick down the old ladder, to meet the youth and see if their irises were touched, black blown out and sunken into their skull. Put them out of their misery before they could do harm. However, with the crack of gunpowder and the ‘clink’ of metal, they waved a great toothed weapon, wrapped in gauze and rust. A hunter, now doubt, in this unending twilight. 

“Nothing ill stalking about down there, I hope?” A well-worn voice asked from behind her. She looked over her shoulder to the large man she accompanied. Greying hair stuck out in sharp locks from under his hat, the attire of a church hunter over his body. She knew however, the path he walked. The rings under his eyes, how he covered them so. She felt a heaviness inside her chest, her duty ringing loudly in her ears. 

“None to concern me, Gascoigne. Seems we’ve a young hunter about,” She replied calmly, turning back to watch the youth press a hand to their head. They looked pained, though no injury seemed upon them. The man grumbled slightly, coming to stand next to her, giant axe planted next to his feet.

“A blow-in then? One of the doctor’s patients risen,” He pondered. His breathing seemed heavy, even for him, the Crow noted. 

“Aye, I reckon, at least,” She returned, rolling her shoulders. Her bones ached with this weather, the glow of the ever dying sun casting warmth across her shoulders. “You’d best be off, mind you. I doubt the child will give trouble,” She said, turning away from the street below. Gascoigne seemed to shrug, the brim of his hat covering his face in shadow. 

“I’ll see to making sure they’ve got wits about them. Gods know we need another set of blades, not half-cut on blood,” He said. She could not help but to wince at his words. Half-cut indeed.

\---- 

Finding his way through the first few streets left the Hunter winded, met with axe-bearing men who shouted and wailed at him with fear and anger. Every slice of the cleaver left him in ruin, a rotted feeling in his chest as these plague ridden people fell. What was he doing? This was murder, surely, but he pressed forth. It seemed the only thing he could do, the only thing his mind knew. And what a mind it was, he could remember nothing still. No beginning, no end, not the slightest idea of how he’d landed in this mess or why. It made his head buzz with dull pain. Added to it, he could not help but feel he was being watched. A presence at his back, around a corner or up a stair. Of course, he owed it the setting and his abhorrent predicament. He’d no doubt eyes were on him. 

Wandering about he was able to scavenge a few extra bullets and vials filled with thick blood. Or at least, he was to assume it was blood. What else would it be, in this mystery. They sang in sweet tones, beckoning him but he knew not what for. They remained in a pocket, kept safe and untouched until he learned how to make use of them. 

The hulking gate near the clinic had not budged, so he wandered for more than a few minutes. Three men attacked him on sight, their skin boiled and sprouting coarse hair. They were not human, at least, not anymore he thought. The thought did not help the sickness he felt in his gut. Searching about, he discovered a sturdy metal ladder, protruding out from a set of tall buildings that lined the street. Apart from scaling the walls of the clinic, it seemed to be the only way forward. Something within him told him to keep moving.

Climbing the thing rung by rung was a task in of itself, his stiff joints and tired muscles passed over each other over and over, trying to reach the top. The sheer height set him into a slight panic, making the mistake of looking below for the smallest second. Flashes of letting go, of falling to the stone street passed through his mind, making him turn his eyes further upwards. He let out a sigh of pure relief as he pulled himself the last rung and onto solid ground. 

The Hunter found himself in a small courtyard, the home before him displaying a single, light lantern. He heard quiet coughing from the inside and his heart jumped. Help, possibly? Someone not out to murder him surely. He’d give anything to hear another sane voice, relief flushing through him as he raised a fist to knock on the door. His hand froze right before it made contact however. What if they were like those others? Or worse, like the beast in the clinic. Instead, he chose to round the side of the small home, to where light poured gently from a large, barred window. He peered in, open glass panes breathing in the evening air. Not wanting to be rude or to be mauled, he stood back a few paces. 

“Pardon?” The Hunter managed to say, his voice barely audible. He sounded awful, his throat dry. The feeling of speaking made him bring a hand to his neck, as if it would dull the pain. There was the rustling of clothing and the creaking of the window’s hinges as he saw a single hand open the thing further. Warm, dark eyes looked at him, mirroring his own surprise it seemed. A man, with a head of short, wavy hair and holding a blanket around himself seemed to share in his sigh of relief. 

“Oh, you must be a hunter,” He spoke, accent somewhat familiar to the Hunter. His voice was pleasant, friendly and low, instantly calming the Hunter’s nerves. Aside from the dark bruises and overall weariness, the man looked to be in decent health. Handsome as well, he found himself thinking. The only oddity seemed to be a long strip of gauze, wrapped about his head and covering one of his eyes. “And not one from around here either,” The man observed. 

“Evidently, sir,” The Hunter said, offering a shrug. “These...happenings...is this...ordinary?” He asked, stepping closer to the window so he may have lowered his voice. The quieter he was, the less his vocal chords protested. He heard the man laugh, a kind sound.

“You must have had a fine time of it then, Yharnam has a special way of treating guests,” The man chuckled sadly. He sighed, resting a hand on the bar of his window. He sat in a chair, most of his home not visible. “I’m Gilbert, a fellow outsider. I...don’t think I can stand if I wanted to, but I’m willing to help, if anything can be done,” He said, turning to a fit of coughing. The Hunter felt a pang of concern for the man. 

“I should offer the same, are you alright?” He asked. He retracted his thought of the man being healthy from a moment ago. The more he looked at him, the more he noticed how haggard the man looked. 

“I’m quite fine, friend, you needn’t worry for me,” He said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. The Hunter did not protest, but his mind went to the clinic. There must be a doctor around somewhere, right? “If you would though...you must listen to me,” Gilbert said, the brief smile fading. “This town is cursed. Whatever your reasons might be, you should plan a swift exit. Whatever can be gained from this place...it will do more harm than good,” His tone dire. The Hunter nodded. 

“Have it anything to do with...what was it, blood ministration? A Paleblood?” The Hunter asked, remembering back to the voice of that strange old man. “I must admit to you, I’ve...no memory. I awoke to...all of this without even my name,” He admitted. 

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that. I pray things shall return to you with haste,” Gilbert said, a look of sympathy on his face. “But Paleblood, you say?” he repeated, tapping the bars with a finger. “I’ve never heard of it, but blood...you should try the Healing Church. They’ve all knowledge on blood ministration. Across the valley, to the east of Yharnam lies the Cathedral Ward,” He explained. “Yharnamites don’t share much with outsiders, but...the hunt is on tonight. This might be your chance,” He offered. The Hunter nodded again.

“Thank you, for everything sir. Might you be able to point me in the right direction?” The Hunter asked, tentatively. He did not wish to overstep, or get the poor man into trouble on his foolishness. 

“Hm...you could try the aqueduct? There’s a rather, how shall I put it...colorful area south of the great bridge. From there, an aqueduct leads to the Cathedral Ward,” Gilbert instructed, another fit of coughing interrupting his direction. “Not a place you’d normally choose the visit, but...not much of a choice, with the bridge closed, due to the hunt,” He added.

“I’m in your debt, kind sir. I’ll find a way to repay you soon,” The Hunter said, bowing slightly to the man. Gilbert simply waved his hand, but nodded his head in return. 

“There will be no need, it has been a pleasure just to have conversation a short while. Stay safe, friend. It is relatively safe up these streets but...I’ve caught wind of hunters going bad. I dread the thought of you coming face to face with one such soul,” Gilbert said. The Hunter sighed, nodded once again in farewell before turning around the side of the home. The open gate next to it led down to an empty walkway, the sounds of mumbling and hushed voices growing ever familiar. Casting a final look behind, he made a vow to himself to travel back to the clinic. To find some sort of help for his newfound and sole ally. 

\----

The twists and turns of Yharnam’s streets did nothing to help the Hunter navigate, doing nothing but muddling the map he desperately tried to create in his head. Walking head on into groups of four or five madmen would have been a death sentence, he felt as if he took hours to pick them off one by one or to sneak past them. He far preferred acting like a shadow he thought, as he swung his cleaver to hack at a man’s neck. The thing seemed to revel in being bathed in blood, its teeth serrated and filthy. It did not get easier, to run into the fight, to put these people down, as mad as they may be. He’d no idea what it was all for, or if it was correct but what was he to do? He wasn’t about ready to lay down and die. 

Lost for direction, he trailed a gun carrying man, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. The air smelled of burning hair and decay, unpleasant to say the least. The Hunter was covered in grime and viscera now, reeking of awful things. He hoped it masked him, perhaps even camouflaged his form. Following the man took time, as he limped slowly and the Hunter would not dare make too much noise. He had time to stop at every lit window he could, peering in to either find nothing, or to be berated. 

“You’d best be off, filthy outsider, better off out there in the night!” One woman practically shouted at him. He scrambled away, lest his unknowing guide hear and be drawn towards him. Thankfully, the man seemed unphased, walking forward without so much as a grunt. The Hunter’s eyes widened as he saw where he was being lead. Peering behind a broken down stagecoach, he took in the sight of a great pyre. A crucifix of sorts, hanging the body of a great beast, much larger than the one from the clinic. Its mangled carcass burned along with other bodies, the roaring fire licking at flesh and bone and announcing the cause of the fetid smell he’d been breathing in. Around the fire stood countless other men, brandishing pitchforks, torches and axes, all stained with gore and other fluids he had no desire to think of. More destroyed carriages, crates and broken fences filled in the stone yard, adding to the sense of destruction that seemed to carry throughout the entire city. 

Scanning the area, he found a set of short stairs that led to an archway, far back behind the pyre. A set of large doors were built into the heavy wall next to it, but a distant pounding told him they would not be opening for him anytime soon. Crafting a makeshift plan, as he could hear commotion behind his head, he gripped his cleaver nervously. Only one man stood near the staircase, he could run and either shoot or swing at him, duck up the small flight and make a break for the archway. They would see him as soon as he started to run but if he could be fast enough, he would make it. Hopefully nothing awaited him on the other side of the archway. A sinking feeling bled through his body as he tried not to notice the similarity to his failure in the clinic. 

No matter, the Hunter stood, his weapons readied. With the approaching madmen behind his and the large group in front, his space was quickly consumed. He jumped from behind his safety, breaking into a sprint towards the pyre. He kept his body low, ducking to the side when the man he’d been trailing turned to stab at him with his pitchfork. His body was light, able to dodge and spring forward, still just as fast as he’d been running. Shouting began as the larger group pointed at him, wailing and charging. He ran easily past, catching a few with the end of his cleaver to slow them. As he approached the stairs, he let loose a bullet into the beastly man about to attack him. It pierced through the man’s skull, and at such a short range, an explosion of brain and blood was splattered into the air. The sight of it cause the Hunter to falter, for a second too long. The sound of angry voices behind him made him move his feet, jumping up the stairs and looking towards the archway, where he could see nothing await him. Brief safety, hopefully.

The tall, iron street lantern obscured a single man, standing atop one of the broken carriages. His additional second of waiting allowed the man to aim properly, a rifle in his hands. The Hunter turned his eyes quickly, hearing the click of the gun’s mechanisms, just about to begin his bolt. He barely had time to register the threat before thunder rang out, a flurry of quicksilver and smoke from the man’s gun. The bullet buried itself in the Hunter’s Chest, right next to his heart. 

The Hunter could feel his chest collapse, the piece of silver cracking through bone and piercing his insides. A spray of blood shot out with the impact then continued to hemorrhage from the hole now cut through him. He sputtered, blood welling in his throat. He dropped to his knees, thick copper pouring from his nose and mouth as he coughed, dropping his weapons to clutch at the wound. He looked down at it, vision blurring and losing color. It was horrible, disgusting to look at. The sheer amount of blood spilling from him made him seize violently. Cold spread through his body, unable to comprehend the dangers still around him. He fell to his hands, staring at the ground as blood pooled underneath him, into the space between the cobblestones. Like the branches of a tree, or red vines climbing a brick wall. The pain was excruciating, almost as much so as the clinic beast. He was genuinely grateful as his vision began to fade, his body falling to the ground. His breath caught, choking on the blood in his throat and he could feel his heart stutter. Beating erratic, irregular. Beat, by struggling beat. Until it stumbled, gentle. The pain took him, hand in hand with ice. 

\----

His eyes blinked open, fluttering back to life. Air filled his lungs, unharmed and working. The taste of blood remained on his tongue but it no longer pooled inside his mouth like it had. He held his hands at his chest, feeling nothing but the warm clothing he wore. The texture of cloth and canvas, confirmed when he looked down. His eyes welled once again, that awful feeling of emptiness settling inside his heart. Hot tears falling down his face as he took in the sight of the peaceful dream once more. He was where he had left, at the foot of the stairs, face to face with the lifeless doll. He could not help but to think she looked to comfort him, as unmoving and cold as her body undoubtedly was. He stumbled forward, trying to pull himself together only to collapse on the stairs. The feeling of the bullet erupting in his chest remained, a phantom in his body, joining the claws and teeth of the beast. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tiny creatures from his last failure. Clasping their hands and speaking in unrecognizable whispers, they reached for him. Gestured in ways that told him to stand, one going so far as to point at the strange cottage atop the hill. The Hunter dared look, the dark building casting no shadow under the grey skies. The doors were open. He breathed, working his way through the panic and the sharp agony of his failures. Eventually, he stood on shaking legs, lifting his heavy feet to climb the stairs. The breeze flowed around him, the white lilies all around whispering. There was something watching. Something greater than his understanding, something in every pore of his skin, every vessel of blood. He could do nothing but accept it, walking the stairs to finally see beyond the doors.

Indoors was quaint, in a way. Small windows far in the back, books strewn about in stacks everywhere. Two more doors on the left side, letting the soft light flow in. He could see dust catch the light where it lay, glittering gently in the air above what looked like an altar. It was not what he expected. It felt like home, almost. Not quite, but almost.

He noticed a old man sitting near the farthest door, sitting patiently in a wheelchair, hands resting on a simple cane. His weathered and wrinkled face was framed with silver hair and a worn hat, greeting the boy with nothing more than the tilt of his head.

“Ah-hah, you must be the new hunter then. Welcome to the Hunter’s Dream,” The old man announced. “I am Gehrman, friend to you hunters,” He introduced with the slight tip of his head. The Hunter could do naught but return the nodd, confused. This brought a dry laugh from the man. “You’re sure to be in a fine haze about now, but don’t think too hard on all this lad,”

“A fine haze? I’ve more than a few questions, if you’d not mind,” The Hunter said curtly, finding his voice was not as horribly wasted as it had proven to be. What an introduction, this old man seemed to think him a ready fool. Of course, he was not sure how much he was not just that. “The Hunter’s Dream you say? That does not lend me much,” He continued. The old man sighed, like he’d been hoping to avoid this conversation.

“Always with the questions, you young ones are. Well then, I suppose, this was once a safe haven for hunters. A workshop, if you would,” Gehrman said. The Hunter could see him tighten his grip on the cane and suddenly felt guilty. This man had done nothing to him, he’d not meant to insult him. “We don’t have as many tools as we once did, but you are welcome to use whatever you find,” Gehrman continued before leaning forward, just a few inches. “Even the doll, should is please you,” He whispered. The Hunter’s guilt disappeared, replaced by a cold chill. He dared not ask what was meant by that.

“That blood in your pocket, you’ll be needed a needle or two. A product of ministration, that’ll clear up more than just your aches and pains. You’ll be needing plenty to keep yourself free of misfortune,” The old man continued on, gesturing towards him. The vials remained, unharmed and brimming with blood of course, he’d not need to look to know that. “That garb won’t do you any favors though,” He pointed out. “There is an old set that may fit, off to the back somewhere, if you’d care for more than traveling clothing,” He offered, pointing with his cane behind himself, in the direction of the altar. The Hunter remained silent, head racing with hundreds of things. Those were answers of course, but not to what he needed. He bite his tongue, unwilling to insult the man further or imply he was ungrateful.

“I thank you then, I...apologize if I sounded cross,” He said finally. The old man sighed.

“Just go out, kill a few beasts,” Gehrman instructed. “It’s for your own good,”

The Hunter clenched his jaw, wishing to ask more but felt as his chest began to burn once again. Perhaps, he’d find another who would explain things better. He nodded, tentatively walking past the old man to look around. The workshop seemed to hold plenty of items, spare bullets and vials as well as bits of information on weapons and attire he’d never seen. He was able to find an old syringe, clean and in a glass case. Drawing it out, the needle grinned at him, sharp and ready to feed blood into his veins it seemed. He set it down on a workbench, along with the contents of his pockets. A handful of vials, the belt of bullets along with the notebook and the mirror. Catching a glimpse of himself did nothing to settle his nerves so he turned it upside down.

The clothing the man had promised lay folded on a stool behind the altar. Worn, but strong trousers, a belted vest and a fresh shirt under an array of belts and pouches meant for carrying his various equipment. A pair of boots, spotted with dirt very much like his own shoes along with a long, leather coat with a pronounced collar. Atop it all sat a laced mask and a hat, pointed with strange, leather feathers decorating the back. 

The Hunter found privacy out the door and into a small garden, stripping himself of his dirty, torn clothing and donning the gear given to him. It fit fairly well, the coat a bit too large, the trousers just tight enough for slight discomfort. The boots and the mask fit well though, an odd comfort in covering his face. The hat sat comfortably, the sharp brim low enough to cover his eyes almost as well as his hood had. He only stopped back into the workshop briefly, collecting his items and putting them in proper places among his new pockets and pouches. He thanked Gehrman once again, earning nothing but a short grunt.

Eager to leave the place, he made his way to the little creatures. The gladly took his hand, pulling him back with a vision of Gilbert’s door. 

\----

Gascoigne was no stranger to new hunters. In his days with the church, he’d even taken it upon himself to train a few. A practice not required of him, but nonetheless, he’d taken up. It’d seemed right, to help the young defend themselves and the city, helping to purge beast blood. In having children of his own, he’d found just why he’d taken to them so. His little daughters, bright with life and love, eager to learn the world. Unfortunate, how the dying sun did not seem to wish this for them.

His partner walked beside him, silent as always, covered in tawny leather. The long feather that hung from his cap swayed, making Gascoigne wonder idly how it had stayed all these years.

“Think they’ll survive the night?” He asked, breaking their comfortable silence. There was no tension between them, not after so long. Not after so many hunts, so many deaths. The dream was far behind them now, as shown in his beastly eyes, but they’d lived it still. 

“If this night ends,” Henryk replied. Small clumps of dark hair stuck out from under his mask, curling towards equally dark eyes. It had always been difficult to read the man and Gascoigne had never been one to know emotions well. However, he knew the man’s uncertainty when he saw it. “Whoever they are, they’re a short step from that other. The one with that toothed spear,” Henryk pointed out. Gascoigne took note of the observation. That toothed spear had stuck him a few times, a man with a wicked twist of one of the workshop creations. A hunter, not of the church, of course not. 

“Eileen has mind to put that one down. You know her, we’d do well to not overstep,” Gascoigne added, shrugging heavy shoulders. There was an itch behind his eyes, one he could not scratch.

“Let us hope, she does so soon, if we’re to save the poor bastard,” Henryk said with a sigh. The Father could do not much else than grunt in agreement. 

\----

The Hunter found as he opened his eyes, he stood at the top of the building, with Gilbert’s home before him. He did not wish to bother the man, not so soon. Nor did he wish to explain his failure or his new attire. He did not wish to think of it. The feeling of the silver within his chest still stung, not aided by the strange old man within the dream. His cleaver was back in the palm of his hand, the weight of his pistol at his side. The company of the weapons was a conflicting comfort, that he’d be relatively safe but at the mercy of his own judgment. He was not keen on that aspect of himself. 

He had a better understanding of the area, of the thin streets running up and down the city like veins in a body. He decided to avoid windows and doors, ducking behind and over rubble. The mad men wandering about had not dwindled in number but had not grown, which was a small relief. Thinking venturing forward, to that large courtyard with the pyre seemed the best path. The thought alone however, struck him with fear. There were too many of them, too many for him at the moment. He’d have to find a new way around or through them if he hoped to move ahead. Turning the opposite direction of which he’d gone previously, he encountered only a few of the half-beast men, cutting them down easily. It seemed as he raised the cleaver, it become swifter, like his limbs were picking up on old, forgotten knowledge. His mind did not pick up on this however, and he resorted to averting his eyes whenever he could from the splitting of flesh and bone. A fairly short walk had him covered in blood, newfound gratefulness to Gehrman for the covering attire, for the gore did not find his skin. 

A great gate greeted him, one he had seen when exiting the clinic. He spotted its locking mechanism, able to activate it easily and wander ahead. The chill from earlier ran the length of his spine and he felt as if he were an animal in a cage. The street seemed to have an affect of that sort, he felt he’d hear a voice in question at any moment. Yet nothing walked the stretch of stone. Not even a plague-ridden madman or a rabid dog to be found. He tried to think nothing of it, ambling on towards the clinic.

It was a small structure, he now noticed. At least, in height, compared to many of the other buildings. Rich architecture and a sloping roof told him it stretched backwards, confirmed as he looked beyond the headstone filled courtyard. A locked gate, closing off what appeared to be a simple graveyard stood in his way of exploring further, so he decided to stop at the front doors. They were closed, not as he had last seen them. He couldn’t remember if he’d closed them or not, finding the doorknob usable. The inside of the building still contained the same smells of medical alcohol and blood, but no where near as sharp as they had been when he’d first awoke. He stayed close to the wall, silently descending the stairs down to the room he’d previously been torn to bits in. The memory shook his frame, blinking rapidly to shut out the sloughing of his own muscles. 

There was no beast. He’d expected to see a corpse, but there was none. Barely even a blood splatter, from the looks of it. A beast was not what he’d come for though, as he scraped up a few clean vials of blood from discarded armoires and cots. Perhaps, they could help the kind man who’d given him at least an inkling to what was occurring. He jumped slightly, as he heard the slight noise of footsteps nearby. He froze before shoving the vials into his coat, readying his cleaver for the worst. When the sounds did not continue, he decided to find the room in which he had awoken. Surely, with all the equipment he’d seen, there would be something of use.

Walking up the stairs led him to a now closed door, small trickles of light coming from broken places in the pane of glass. He was surprised to see an eye, peering through and staring at him fearfully. 

“Are you...out on the hunt?” A woman’s voice asked, wavering slightly. He could hear the creaking of a gun in her hand, even from behind the door. He cleared his throat, hoping he’d be able to speak.

“Aye, miss, I’m-” He began to say, only to be cut off.

“Then I’m very sorry, but...I cannot open this door. I am Iosefka, this is my clinic and my patients...they must not be exposed to infection,” She said with forced sternness. She sounded as if she were about to break. “I know, you hunt for us but...I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” She continued, rambling a bit. The Hunter perked up, a sense of hope welling in him.

“You are a doctor then? You needn’t apologize, but I have...I’ve an acquaintance, someone very sick, I need help for him,” He explained. “I’ve nothing to offer but gratitude, but I-” He started to say, cut short once again. The woman held a single hand through a missing panel of the door, holding something tightly. 

“Please. This is all I can do,” She said. He looked at her, hope dissipating with each step he took to near her. In her hand was a single vial, golden in color. He could smell it, the scent of honey and rosemary in the air around it. “This may help your friend, I will pray it does. Now, go,” She said as he took the vial. He thought to offer his help, but the way she seemed to wave him gone stopped him. He bowed slightly, if she could see before turning to retreat back outside.

“And good hunting. I will pray for your safety,” Iosefka called after him. He felt the sting of disappointment within him, followed closely by confusion. She’d not be of help, and did not seem to wish for his in return. At the same time, who was she? This was the same clinic, was it not? His eyes were downcast as he made his was from the building, sweeping through the small rooms once more. He found little, nothing more than scraps of paper and packaged items that would be of no real use to him. His stomach growled and he realized just how hungry he was. He’d have to find something to eat soon. Preferably nothing with blood. Stopping to stand in the courtyard, he did not bother to scan the area. The sunlight hadn’t changed, though it felt as if it had been hours upon hours since he’d first seen it. He sighed, deciding to rest for a few minutes, to gather his thoughts and formulate some sort of plan. Sitting down at the foot of a great, dead tree offered him solace, a brief moment of respite. A moment to let his eyes unfocus, the world bathed in orange turned to a blur. 

“Paths ahead too glossed in smoke for you, are they?” A voice asked suddenly, dragging him from any peace he’d hoped for. The voice itself was like smoke, like fog on a warm night, low and powerful. His eyes snapped forward, hand shooting out to find his cleaver from where he’d set it next to him. He jumped from his sitting position into a crouch, readied for a strike upon him. As vision quickly cleared and he looked ahead, he found he was faced with another hunter. A long coat, similar to him matched with a hat and a mask, pulled down to hang just under his chin. The man’s hair was thick and dark, framing grey eyes that struck him as much too clear. The man’s posture spoke of no ill intent, relaxed with arms crossed at the gate, awaiting a response. He looked young, but older than the Hunter definitely.

“You look like a pup with its tail between its legs, friend. Are you in need?” The man pressed. The Hunter could see a long, gnarled weapon hanging from his side. A curved bar like his own cleaver, with a similar spiked blade. 

“If you’ve assistance to offer, I would not turn you away,” The Hunter replied warily. Something about the man struck him as dangerous. Perhaps it was just the fact he’d not met another one of these hunters, as he’d been called. They might not take too kindly, if he was considered some sort of imposter. Or since he could not recall, he worried he might have been something of trouble in his past, which landed him in that clinic in the first place. The man seemed amused, laughing lightly and lowering his arms. 

“Of course you wouldn’t,” The man stated in a tone he could not place. “Allow me, to take a guess at you first. You’ve no memory, do you?” The man asked curtly. The Hunter could feel himself pale. A lie would be caught fast, he doubted he’d be able to talk himself out of whatever this was.

“Unfortunately, you would be correct,” He admitted, hesitating for a moment, eyes flickering between the man’s face and the spear at his side.

“Ever curious, you are then,” The man mused. The Hunter decided to stand, slowly, as he meant no threat. The man looked seasoned, bloodied attire enough to warn him. 

“I suppose I am, at that,” The Hunter returned nervously, taking a step to the side and trying to relax. The man studied him, something in his expression familiar. Vaguely though, like looking at the world through oil. The breeze touched at his clothing, at his hair from under his hat. He wondered if any of his face was even visible, from the distance they stood from each other. The man had probably lowered his mask out of courtesy but he could not bring himself to do the same.

“Your name is Eliah,” The man said abruptly. “As far as assistance goes, that’s what I offer for now,” He said. The Hunter thought on it for a moment. Eliah? Yes that...he could remember that detail, how could he have forgotten? The voice from the clinic, the visions, they’d called his name. That name, ringing through his ears. He furrowed his brow, the ringing turning to a clamor inside his skull, like a splitting headache but not painful enough to warrant response. 

“You know me then?” He asked. The man chuckled, shifting his weight where he stood. He did not answer merely walked forward, meeting the Hunter where he stood. Shoulder to shoulder they would have been, if not for the few feet of space. The Hunter gauged the difference between them, in height and weight as best he could. The man easily had the upper hand on both, compared to his slim stature. 

“Watch your step, friend. Hunt well, while we’re parted,” The man said, a curved grin on his face before continuing his path forward and into the clinic. The Hunter had little mind to follow or ask anything more. He felt strange, even more violently addled with confusion than he was before. 

Eliah. His name, he supposed, whether it was the truth or not. Still, it fit well enough. Gods know he was in need of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo!! I should probably rewrite the main summary so it makes it clear that this is almost a novelization of the game with a lot of creative liberty taken? Let me know if there are any errors, grammar or spelling, I'm awful at proof-reading my own work 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I'll have next chapter up by the weekend hopefully!


	4. Hell Hath No Quarter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mind is not meant to grow any further than it was made to. Like a sack, laden with too much, its stitches will split and break, spilling its contents until nothing is left. The crack, the snap that rang in your ears, that was simply the first of many.

Eliah did not know what to think as he pressed forward, remaining unseen and silent. It was becoming habit, trying to avoid any and all creatures in this unending evening. Beast or no, killing made his insides turn on themselves. He took careful steps on the stone street, making his way back to the pyre courtyard. However much he dreaded it, he needed to get through. He rolled a stone in his palm, a weak idea but an idea nonetheless. He crept up behind a grimly familiar carriage with the rock in hand and surveyed the area. It seemed the same, a crowd of raving madmen and the few armed with guns circling around the burning corpse of a great beast. He ignored the churning of his stomach as he inched forward, careful not to alert anything near of his presence. 

Tossing the stone as far as he could, it clattered into a stray bit of fence, a loud iron clang ringing out into the air. It continued to bounce for a moment, rapping against the ground. The men in the courtyard seemed instantly aggressed, turning filthy heads and dull axes to the noise. The Hunter thanked whatever gods were present as most of them shuffled towards it, allowing him a split second of precious time to reenact his previous plan.

He bolted forward, as quiet as he could, not taking any time to stop and gauge whether or not the mob noticed. He spun about the small stairwell and looked briefly at the man who had last buried a bullet in his chest, planning his timing as well as he could. The man had not moved, the clicking of the gun telling him he was at risk of the same thing happening again. Eliah squeezed the handle of his cleaver, the blade swinging outwards in a long arc as he cut it overhead through the air. He felt his blood rush as the blade’s teeth sunk into the man’s skull, a sick sense of fulfillment washing over his body. The man crumpled to the ground, jostled only as Eliah tore the cleaver from his bones, the blade falling back into its closed state. Eliah closed his eyes tightly for a split second, trying to ignore the conflict within him. The clamor of the madmen rang out behind him and he knew he had not the time for standing. Wasting not a second to look behind, he sprang forward, chest heaving and body burning in through the archway he’d failed before. The sounds of fighting were apparent here.  
Eliah thought fast, not wanting the mob at his back to become a more serious threat, looking around as fast as he could. The area he’d so desperately tried to reach was yet another large yard, dead trees and pine coffins lying about. Trash and forgotten cargo littered the street and he could spot a large, dry fountain in the center. What struck him truely however, was the sight of two hunters by the looks of it. One, a man wearing strange yellow leathers, expertly cutting small knives through the air and the other, an almost beastly man, growling and spitting as he swung a monstrous axe. They fought a hulking brute, armed with a piece of brick and swinging wildly at them. The sight filled him with relief, almost. If not for the brute.

“The lever, child!” The hunter in yellow shouted at him. Eliah was at loss for a moment, surprised the man had even seen him. Surprised or no, he thought quick, spinning around and searching his immediate area for something of the sort. With even more relief, he found a glinting metal lever mounted on the side of the wall behind him. The spike of a hidden portcullis shined from above, within the top of the wall’s arch. The madmen from the square screamed and shouted, sprinting at him from down the way. Needing no further instruction, he kicked the lever. As the mechanism was forced down, a great creaking shuddered through the wall. The chains within protested only for a second before giving way, the heavy gate previously bound upwards, crashing to the ground with a cry of iron. Eliah jumped back, careful not to be caught under the heavy device, staring dumbfounded at the mob of half beasts as they clattered against it with weapons and limbs. 

Brought back to the present by the sound of the brute’s dying rattle, he turned back in time to see it’s large body fall to the street. The fulvous hunter slid a handful of knives back into his jacket as the other much larger man drew the blade of his axe from the brute’s corpse with a sickening noise. Eliah was wary of course, hanging back and away from them, not wishing to pose a threat to the pair. 

“There is no need to act a mouse with us, young hunter,” The shorter man called to him, waving with a hand for him to join them. The Hunter hesitated, making as many mental notes of escape as he could. There seemed around side of the courtyard, another street leading somewhere as well as a great hole in the fencing before him, blocked only by old boxes. 

“If you’d been marked for the hunt, you’d not be standing,” The man with the axe grumbled, shaking blood from his coat. Eliah nervously clicked his gloves fingers on his pistol before giving in, walking down the short path to the stairs that would lead him down. Nearing the pair, the stench of beasts struck him, even more so than usual. The fact that viscera and gore practically dripped from them both was enough to warrant it. 

“So, where’d you rise from, lad? Got a name, a path to walk?” The large man asked, planting the head of his axe into the ground and leaning on the end of the handle as Eliah walked to them. The Hunter made sure to leave a few paces between them, keeping a skittish eye on the yellow hunter as the man jumped to sit upon the edge of the fountain. He seemed to be out of breath, carrying a similar cleaver to what rested in Eliah’s hand.  
“I’ve no memory to share, I’m afraid,” The Hunter admitted. He shook his head, not sure if it was wise to say so. “Name is Eliah though, I’d reckon that’s a start at least,” He said. He could feel his chest begin to burn with the pain it cost to speak. His voice sounded raspy at best, but at least it was more than a whisper. He idly wondered why.

“Fancy that. A strange one you are then, to pick up a hunter’s tools and go to work,” The man stated, the yellow hunter nodding in agreement. “In any case, you seem to know what you’re doing. Many hunter’s from other places find their way here, especially on nights of hunt,” He continued. “I am Gascoigne, this is my partner Henryk. Best stick close, some horrid thing is about, screamin’ bloody murder on the bridge,” He said. Eliah nodded, making sure to bow his head to both of the hunters. 

“Gascoigne, you’d best take this one up in place of me, I need a moment,” Henryk said. The man didn’t look injured but he seemed weary at best. Gascoigne turned to him with concern, holding his axe.

“Go catch respite with Viola then, old friend. I’d not push you any further, I’ll come back to check with you once the thing is put down,” Gascoigne said. Henryk’s eyes flickered over to Eliah briefly. He caught a glimpse of something strange. Sorrow, it seemed. 

“Aye, you’d best do so,” The man said with a slight cough. Eliah noticed just how aged the man was, how aged they both were. He did not blame the man for needing rest. Gascoigne nodded, hesitating a moment before beckoning the Hunter. He turned on his heel, long coat and scarf flowing out behind him, the large axe seemingly a banner to stand behind. Eliah meant to follow before Henryk raised a hand.

“Lad, you’ll do well to listen to him...but don’t let this fool get caught up in the hunt...you understand?” He said with grim seriousness. “You’ve the dream in your eyes still, something we don’t,” He said. Eliah nodded quickly, not wanting to anger the man. The mention of the dream struck him with odd calm. 

“Good then. You’ll make for a fine hunter, I’m sure. Be off,” The man said, dismissing the Hunter. Eliah could do nothing but nod again, trotting off to catch up with Gascoigne. 

\----

As the two walked hand in hand, Eliah found it easy to fight alongside the older hunter. Where he was silent and fast, Gascoigne easily swept in behind him with aggression and strength. Men and dogs crossed their path, quickly cut down but the dueling of Eliah’s gun and Gascoigne’s axe. He owed it to Henryk, he supposed. He must fight in a similar way, what with the matched weapons and stature. 

“Hold no quarter for them, lad. They’ve none for you,” Gascoigne said when Eliah hesitated to lodge a bullet into the skull of a downed beast. The man had stared up at him, flesh leaking unto the ground. Eliah had not been able to help the sickness that swept through him before pulling the trigger. 

“They’re people, are they not?” Eliah said, nervous to the hear the man’s response. The man simply laughed. Gascoigne was intimidating, to say the least. The brim of his hat covered his already gauze wrapped eyes, making it impossible to read his expression. Whenever the man spoke, he caught sight of sharp teeth and heard a beastly rumble in his chest. The man was kind however, in their brief partnership, he’d only been of help, going so far as to show Eliah a quick way with the syringe meant for blood. The Hunter had yet to touch the stuff, but was grateful in any case. It was comforting just to have someone to walk with. 

“A beast is a beast. Morality is for the church I suppose, we just put them down, for the better,” Gascoigne said. 

“The Healing Church. I’ve still no knowledge of them, I’m sorry to say,” Eliah said, hoping for any hint of an explanation. Gascoigne seemed willing to share, as they came to stand halfway up another set of stairs, buildings on either side of them. Eliah could hear the yips and howls of beasts crawling above and assumed it to be the great bridge he’d heard about.

“We’d best collect ourselves a moment then. I’m no scholar, mind you. Just an old bastard, out his mind, but I suppose those are the ones you’d trust more than those other types,” The man said, a hearty laugh escaping him. Eliah could not help but to chuckle along, muscles relaxing just a fraction at the simple interaction. 

“If you get your mind back, I’m sure you’ll remember tales of this city and its church. Brought to be by madmen, I’d dare say. They’ve a love of blood, it’s used for healing here, as the name suggests,” Gascoigne explained, resting on his axe like he had before. Eliah leaned his back to the wall, avoiding any windows or doors that might disturb someone. “I’d be willing to bet you came here for the ministration, many do, even hunters,” He said. “When I was young as you, I’d a mind to join them, a hunter myself already. They employ many of us in their ranks, always have. Gave me title of “Father”, before I’d even earned it wholly,” He said with a distant look. 

“I’d championed their cause well enough, worked on the hunt, cutting down any folk with signs of the plague and any beasts that stalked about. I’d had about enough of it after so many years, Henryk and I deserted after the old district burned,” Gascoigne described, seemingly staring at the ground as he did so. “This city’s drunk on blood, due to their arrogance it seems. They meant to fight beasts but instead made a way to become them,” He said with a strange tone. Eliah thought to ask, but was dissuaded as they sound sound of footsteps alerted the both of them to another presence. They both jumped to the ready, Eliah in front and down a few steps, pistol aimed forward. He could feel Gascoigne’s axe looming overhead, prepared to jump and drop on whatever neared. At the foot of the stairs, stood the strange hunter who’d provided him with his name, eyes cast upwards at them. 

“Curious for you to speak of becoming a beast, Father,” The Saw Hunter said, smokey voice unsettling and stirring deep within Eliah. He lowered his weapons nonetheless, relaxing back into a calm position. He felt Gascoigne do the same, however tense the man remained. 

“For you as well, ya pox. Best watch yourself, one wrong move will rain blades upon you,” Gascoigne said with anger Eliah had not heard before. For Gascoigne to threaten the man so, he began to wonder the man’s intentions. However unsettling, he hadn’t seemed bloodthirsty, at the very least. 

“Now now, we’re after the same thing, old man,” The Saw Hunter laughed, the twisted weapon at his side again drawing Eliah’s attention. It wasn’t much different than his own, but he could not shake the slight sense of fear it struck him with. “The beast on the bridge, it blocks a great deal of paths. It seems our interests align,” He stated through his mask. Eliah looked away when the man’s eyes found his.

“Seems so. Anything underhanded, you won’t be needing to wait for the crows to come, boy,” Gascoigne threatened. Eliah turned to look at him with confusion and concern, only for the older man to shake his head. He retreated up the stairs, Eliah following close behind after shrugging at the Saw Hunter. The man followed them up, not making any more attempts at conversation. 

“Gascoigne, this beast...are you certain this is wise?” Eliah asked in a whisper, out of necessity and discretion. 

“It is what must be done, lad. The clerics turn into the worst of them but, a beast must be put down,” Gascoigne explained. Eliah’s hair stood on end, nerves setting in as they climbed the stairs. Coming to stand atop the bridge, he darted forward and behind, as to stand away from the other men. He kept a tight grip on his cleaver, Gascoigne contempt for the strange man enough to set him on edge. He kept his eyes trained on him as he followed up, looking out at the long bridge. More collapsed carriages and corpses rotted about, two large beasts swatting at each other a ways down. Strange statues of robed figures holding candles acted as makeshift civilians. They’re empty expressions did nothing to ease his unrest. The Saw Hunter and Gascoigne exchanged looks, both readying their weapons, wary of one another. 

“Lad, just like we’ve been doing. Anything moves, take the shot and hack away at it. I’ll take the brunt and down it as quick as I can,” Gascoigne called to him. “You however. Stay out of my way, I won’t be keeping your sorry skin in mind,” He spat at the Saw Hunter. The man just chuckled in response. 

“I’d not expect you to, Father,” He returned. Eliah attempted to push this newfound stress away, striding forward between the two taller men. He hoped they would simply fall in line behind him, but he did not want to look back. As he neared the two beasts, he noted their similarity to that of the pyre corpse and the clinic beast. His fear ebbing, he walked on calmly, even as they turned their bloody jaws towards him, hissing and growling as they began to circle. One lunged forward, met only with the crack of his gun. With the bullet piercing its leg, it went down. He felt Gascoigne behind him and jumped out of the way as the man ran forward with a battle cry, slamming the axe down onto the creature’s body. It yelped and twisted, a spray of blood covering the two of them. Eliah felt more focused than he had ever before, turning just in time to stop the second beast from jumping on him. He held his cleaver forward, the thing jumping onto the blade, its chest stuck on the teeth. It whimpered and swung with its claws, managing to graze Eliah’s shoulder. As blood dripped down onto him, he felt ribbons fall from his arm, pain blossoming in the claw marks and down his muscles. He hissed, raising his gun to shoot the thing before the Saw Hunter speared the beast in its side, tearing the blade of his weapon down and pulling internal organs from it’s ribcage. Eliah pushed the thing off his cleaver only to slice it back down, silencing the beast’s dying whimper with a swift cut to the back of its head. The pain in his shoulder was only helped by adrenaline. The three of them stood, Gascoigne breaking his axe apart to hold a pistol in his free hand. The Saw Hunter, wiped his blade onto his own coat, bits of lung and fur clinging to the leather. Eliah’s breath came in quick heaves, the air reeking of copper and crimson. 

“Good show, lad, you’ll be needing that blood now though,” Gascoigne pointed out. Eliah nodded, mind in a haze from the beasts. It had been easier this time, both physically and mentally. He couldn’t tell if that was good or not as he placed his cleaver under his arm, digging about in the small bag at his side of a vial of blood and the syringe. Pulling the liquid out was easy, the small trigger Gascoigne had showed him allowed for a quick transfer. He let the glass fall to the ground, discarded as the pain deepened. He saw Gascoigne walk ahead out of the corner of his eye, no doubt sizing up the other beasts they’d have to put down. The Saw Hunter remained, unphased by the blood and guts that decorated his attire. 

“It’s best in the leg, more veins so it works quicker,” The man said, when he hesitated with the needle in hand. Eliah looked over at him briefly, nodding his head. The bite of the metal was nothing as it slid through his trousers and skin. He could feel the cold fluid as it entered his body, a wave of warmth radiating from where he’d punctured his skin. It was pleasant, oddly enough, the warmth finding its way into his bloodstream with extreme speed and working its way to his arm. A numbness formed where the claws had cut, stopping the bleeding and closing the flesh. When it reached his head, he felt dazed. The calm, pleasing warmth made him close his eyes for a moment, before he shook his head. 

He pulled the needle out quickly, stashing it back into his bad. He understood now, Gascoigne’s apparent distaste for ministration and why it was referred to as “blood drunk”. Until the pin prick on his thigh was closed, he felt as if the world was tilted a degree. He shook his head once again, turning eyes forward and readying his weapon, only to find the Saw Hunter still near. He’d expected the man to go forth and help Gascoigne who by the looks of it, had just nearly cut a plague-ridden man in half. 

“Not out of wit, are you?” The man asked, brow arched. Eliah stammered for a moment. 

“We’re out on the hunt are we not? What are you doing, staring at me?” The hunter protested. He could begin to see sinister intent in the way the man held himself, giving reason to why he unsettled him so. 

“Awaiting you, dear hunter. Let’s be off now,” He replied, Eliah could almost hear a smile on the man’s face. He made sure to let him lead, not wanting to turn his back to the man. 

“We’ve a whole lot of beasts to slay, this is no time for a stroll, lads!” Gascoigne shouted at them, flinging the body of a half-beasts over the side of the bridge. He looked unhinged, breathing labored and sharp teeth on display. Eliah thought of Henryk’s warning and ran to stand between the man and the path forward. 

“Take a moment Gascoigne, I’ll go ahead,” He called in response. Pairing Henryk’s warning with the Saw Hunter’s slight was enough to key in the man’s ailment, as if his beastly aura did not. He heard the older man start to protest, but bolted ahead anyway. With the Saw Hunter following, he ran forward, charging at what looked to be a group of giant crows, writhing about on the ground. They had doglike fur in places and howled like wolves, beaks snapping and biting at him. A large brute like the one before loomed behind them, making a deep moaning noise as he bolted. His focus remained with him, blood bolstered by the vial. With the latch tugged, the cleaver fell open. He spun, twisting his body to swing the blade in an arc close to the street. It cut clean through the maws of two of the disgusting birds, shrieks of their pain ringing through his ears. After completing the arc, he simply swung the cleaver down onto the spine of the third, right before it flung its body into the air. His confidence got the better of him, seeing the swing of the brute’s meaty fist as it traveled to collide with him. He jumped out of the way just in time, dashing to the side and backwards. To his dismay however, his bad luck was not over just yet. His heel caught briefly as the fist swung before him, causing him to try to catch himself with his other foot. He found quickly however, that there was little room for him to travel, the leg meeting the stone of one of the horrid statues. 

The flash of the Saw Hunter’s spear was a welcome sight, the blade skewered under the brute’s jaw as the man jumped in front of him, almost too close for comfort. The brute twitched for a moment before its arms dropped, limp at its side. There was a sick crunching as the Saw Hunter shoved the warped metal even further through before wrenching it out. The things’ jaw went slack and open as it crumbled backwards, body tumbling to the stone ground. Eliah’s heart pounded in his chest, ears ringing. The man kicked the corpse further away, as if he meant to step forward. Instead, he remained where he stood, turning lazily to look down at the shorter man. 

“I thought I told you to watch your step,” The man said condescendingly, front covered in darkened blood. Eliah could smell gunpowder and death upon him as he looked up, confusion only lingering for a second before he remembered the man’s parting words when he had met him. With adrenaline still racing through him, he boldly placed a hand on the man’s soaked chest and pushed lightly, stepping to his right as soon as he had enough room to.

“Thank you for that,” Eliah said, ignoring the statement. Gascoigne stood before the corpses, looking about to strike the man before Eliah raised a hand and nodded, in assurance that everything was fine. He thought to say more but his chest felt cracked and dry.

“We’d best get to it then, if we’re collected,” The Saw Hunter stated, striding ahead with his spear in hand. Gascoigne came to stand next to Eliah, his axe clicking back into its longer state. Eliah tried to focus, holding down the latch and letting the clever pivot back. He’d no idea what beast they faced, by the talk of it, he was preparing for the devil. 

The screech that split through his ears as they walked to the end of the bridge almost confirmed his fears, the great beast crawling up over the large wall at the very end. Its body was a amalgamation of every terrible piece he’d seen of other beasts, a bloody rib cage exposed through stretched and broken skin. As it stood atop the rampart, he could see a long mane of filthy fur growing from its back and down one hulking arm, rippling unnaturally in the twilight. Its other arm was much thinner, but both ended in a mess of long, vicious claws. Its legs were short, covered in fur that looked akin to mold, nails and blades stabbed into the mangled flesh. Its head however, its head glistened like it was wet, a deep red in color. Gnarled teeth and antlers stuck out of it like some horrid stag, the bone taking the appearance of wood. It jumped from its perch, filing its fetid body at them, letting loose a scream of agony and hatred. 

“What in bloody hell is that,” Eliah said, voice barely a whisper, staring wide eyed at the horror before him. Prepared for the devil he had been. He hadn’t been prepared for hell itself. Such a thing should not exist, this could not be possible. He felt something snap in his mind, a sinister chill filling him as he and the other hunters charged forth. 

“Same as before lad! No mercy!” Gascoigne cried as it tore its way to them, its thin body dripping fluids onto the ground. Eliah worked on instinct, ignoring the rational and every bit of fear he felt. It was not the time. The Saw Hunter rounded behind, ducking as the creature swatted at him. Eliah made sure his pistol was loaded, looking up at the beast. It had no eyes, none he could recognize and the inside of its mouth seemed naught but a fleshy, gaping hole armed with rows of sharp teeth, nothing more. Gascoigne charged, spinning in a wide circle to strike at the beast, cutting a line of scarlet across its middle. Enraged, it pounded a fist into to street below, almost catching the older hunter before he dodged out of the way. Eliah needed to get its attention, unfurling the cleaver and making a single, wide jab at its knee, hoping to point its rage at himself. He saw the Saw Hunter behind its back, ready to spear into its spine. 

Eliah looked up into its unspeakable maw, reeking of corpses and bile as it screeched directly at him. Flecks of blood and spittle landed upon his coat as it raised its colossal arm to claw at him. He took a deep breath, praying to the gods for luck, and took aim at its face. With the pull of the trigger and the flash of smoke, the bullet loosed and buried itself somewhere in the beast’s head, a vile wail erupting from its throat. It’s arm swung to cover where the bullet had cracked into it and it was thrown to its knees. Eliah closed the remaining distance with one goal.

The cleaver seemed overjoyed to be thrust straight through the beast’s downed skull, hacking away at a twisted antler and sawing into its brain. Eliah barely noticed the Saw Hunter high upon its bent back, stabbing his spear into its hide. His vision was colored with reds and browns, the cleaver falling into its ghastly visage over and over again, coating him with spinal fluids and thin, watery blood. Bits of greying brain and bone spattered against him as the beast still fought, its body buckled onto itself. It screamed, a sound that sent a horrible thrum through his bones and grated against his insides, by the gods, he wanted it to stop. 

Gascoigne’s axe swung heavy and true, slicing through locks of hair and blood, resting finally in the beast’s neck. The Saw Hunter stood atop its back, pulling his spear from between its shoulder blades. The cries died along with the monstrosity, but Eliah could still hear it. He did not stop his assault on its skull until he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“It screams still, it is not down!” He snapped, jerking at the contact and jumping violently back, pulling his cleaver with him. It dragged ropes of thick blood with it, viscious and leaking out onto the street. His eyes darted between the beast’s destroyed head and Gascoigne, who very carefully held his hand up. He looked harrowed, blood creating patterns across his garb and on his face. One strip of gauze was torn from his face, exposing a single, beast like eye. His breathing was labored and caught in his throat like he was about to howl. Yet, he remained quiet, one hand on his axe. 

“It is dead, lad. We’ve put it down, there is no need for this,” Gascoigne assured, his voice deep and heavier than usually. The Saw Hunter jumped from the beast’s back, coming to stand next to the older hunter. 

“You made a right mess of its head there, a fine fell for your first monster,” The man said casually. Eliah could do nothing but hold his cleaver, hand shaking as the screams started to fade. Quieter and quieter they became as he stood there, Gascoigne slowly dislodging his axe from the great corpse. 

“Our work is done here,” Gascoigne assured again. Eliah felt his own broken breathing in his chest, the beating of his heart telling him he was alive. Glancing down at the corpse, its jaws did not move. No agony spilled from it anymore, apart from the blood. He dropped his weapons, a gloved hand trying to wipe the specks of blood from his face as he regaining some composure. He hadn’t noticed the sweat dripping down his temples, like an itch he could not scratch. 

\----

“Back to Henryk, you’ll make sure he’s alive, that old bastard. And my wife, she’ll tend to your wounds if you have them, let her know I’ll be home soon enough,” Gascoigne had told the boy. He knew not what else to do with the young hunter, other than to send him off back the way they came. Watching as the young man retreated back, soaked head to toe in blood spoke of his accomplishment. Once he’d stepped back into his skin, he’d apologized and refused to leave, but the Father could not have a hunter on the verge of breaking by his side. The streets would be clear, little threat of danger coming to him. He’d done a fine job, this was certain. The poor child really must have no clear idea of what awaits him within this horrid city, if a beast such as that was enough to make him snap. Gascoigne chose not to dwell on the matter, the feeling of insects inside of his own skull enough of a problem.

“You’d dare not follow that man, or I’ll cut you down now,” He threatened the remaining hunter. The man stood, inspecting that warped spear as they walked back down the bridge. He’d no idea why the man would choose to follow him, but he knew he was strong enough to put him down if needed. Quick and strong the man may be, but Gascoigne would not let himself be felled in such a manner. 

“Of that, I’ve no doubt. Be sure to take care however, with so many others you’d not want to fall to such a fate, aye Father?” The Saw Hunter replied, eyes glinting from under his hat. Gascoigne had half a mind to cut him down regardless, muscles singing with otherworldly songs. His eyes felt dry and weeping, bruised sockets little more than holes in his flesh. The scent of blood, all around made his stomach churn and heave, like he needed to vomit onto the ground. They came to stand near the door of a building, one he intended to traverse into. 

“Get thee gone, viperous fiend,” He spat at the man, who simply bowed in mock respect before disappearing down the bridge, ducking the opposite way of the young hunter. Gascoigne crumbled to the ground as soon as the man was gone, holding on to his old axe. He rested his head back on the guardrail of the bridge, looking up into the unchanging sky. So many nights, so much blood. Every death called to him, like moths to a flame. He thought of his daughters, golden hair and clean frocks, always happy to see him home. The gentle tunes of a small box, lulling him into safe sleep, nestled in that tiny home. Viola, in her stern way, fixing his hat and telling him to make sure to come home. He felt something catch in his chest.

Something hot dripped from a dry eye, a single tear down his cheek. He was not a man to cry, no. But her face. Her beautiful, kind face that he’d seen every day since he’d met her. That fine, red broach at her throat, shining with the boldness in her eyes. How he wished he’d kissed her, just one moment longer, held her just the smallest bit tighter. Wished to hold his daughters close, to tell them the world would never hurt them. 

He’d never see them again, he realized, sitting on the cold ground. The once proud Father of the Church stood, grief tearing through him. A beastly urge boiled up inside him, the flies buzzing about inside his skull ringing with ferocity as he let a howl of anguish claw out of his chest, dropping his axe to press his fingers into his eyes. 

The scent of blood was overwhelming, from inside the building. Plague victims, madmen all the same. He tore through them nonetheless, with his axe chopping where it could find purchase. He growled and roared like nothing more than an animal, putting them all down. The reason he’d never see them again, why he’d never again see the light of day against that golden hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit late, but I had a weekend full of work and fixing my ps4 so I'm glad to get this up now! Next update might not be till next week, not sure as of now, but it'll hopefully be soon! Let me know of any typos, weird phrasing and all that! Thanks for reading, hope you guys have a great week!!


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